Tyrone woke up slowly.
The scent of last night still clung to his sheets—feminine musk, high-end perfume, and his own deep, musky cologne, now sweat-worn and soaked into the cotton. Celeste had already slipped out quietly sometime before dawn, leaving behind only a warm indent in the bed and a pair of black lace panties tangled near his ankle.
Juliette remained, sprawled across the width of his bed like a queen in her afterglow. Her blouse was unbuttoned, hair a wild halo, one hand curled loosely around a half-empty champagne glass she’d insisted on sipping while he and Celeste took turns worshipping her thighs.
Tyrone slid from bed, towering and stark naked, his muscles flexing with every slow movement. He padded across the room to his floor-to-ceiling windows, soaking in the morning skyline, cock half-hard already just from the memory of last night.
Juliette stirred.
“You’re going again, aren’t you?” she said with a gravelly voice—part amused, part impressed.
Tyrone grinned. “You know me.”
She did. And she knew better than to try and cling.
“Don’t wear them out before I get my next round,” she said, throwing on her trench coat without panties and walking barefoot out the door.
The Past Comes Knocking: Liam Returns
Tyrone barely had time to pour a protein shake before the intercom buzzed.
“Package at the door.”
But it wasn’t a delivery.
It was Liam.
The intern-turned-object-of-desire from just a week prior—the young, hungry, bi-curious corporate hopeful with soft lips, light scruff, and a body that had only become tighter from hitting the gym post-Tyrone.
He stood there in a black turtleneck and slacks, clutching a portfolio like it was a shield. His eyes sparkled with hunger—part nervous, part needy.
“I was… in the area,” Liam lied badly.
Tyrone leaned against the doorway, wearing nothing but sweatpants and a dangerous grin.
“You been dreaming about it?”
Liam swallowed.
“Every night.”
“Inside. Now.”
Liam moved like someone stepping into a lion’s den, only this lion smelled of spice, cedarwood, and unapologetic sex. Tyrone let him sit on the couch and hand him the “presentation,” but within minutes, the file lay forgotten on the floor.
Tyrone stood behind him, brushing his fingers over Liam’s jaw, then sliding down his chest. The boy shuddered.
“You’ve been working out for me?”
“Yes,” Liam breathed, eyes fluttering.
Tyrone spun him around and kissed him hard, his mouth claiming Liam’s in a deep, dominant kiss that left the younger man gasping. He undressed him slowly, deliberately—shirt first, revealing those lean, defined pecs, that flat stomach. Then pants, pooling around Liam’s ankles as he stood in tight boxer-briefs already straining.
Tyrone pushed him to his knees.
“You remember how I like it.”
Liam nodded and opened his mouth.
Tyrone used him slowly at first, one hand gripping Liam’s curls, forcing eye contact the entire time. The intern moaned, his throat working harder as Tyrone praised him with every thrust—“That’s it… deeper… you missed this, didn’t you?”
And when he bent Liam over the desk—the same one Jessica had moaned on hours earlier—he didn’t hold back. The sounds echoed off glass and marble: slaps, moans, the rhythmic thrusts of dominance.
Liam begged for more. For rougher. For Tyrone.
When it was over, Liam lay draped over the leather couch, thighs twitching, lips swollen from kisses, face lit with blissful exhaustion.
“I didn’t come back for business,” he confessed.
Tyrone lit a cigar. “Good. I’m not done with you yet.”
Tyrone had just stepped out of a shower—steam rolling off his shoulders, towel low on his hips—when the elevator opened directly into his penthouse.
He tensed.
Only one other person had access like that.
She stepped in like a storm—Annika. From Sweden. Tall. Voluptuous. The strawberry-blonde who ran the Stockholm arm of a luxury wellness brand. She hadn’t been part of the sex club night. No. She had been watching from the balcony, sipping aquavit and smirking like a Nordic goddess in heels.
And now here she was.
“I took the red-eye,” she said simply, heels echoing on his stone floor.
“You flew across the world,” he said, crossing his arms over his bare chest.
“For you.”
She didn’t wait.
Annika dropped her coat, revealing creamy Nordic skin and nothing underneath. Her breasts bounced as she stepped forward. Tyrone dropped the towel.
Their bodies clashed like heat and ice. She was bold—slapping his chest, biting his neck, trying to wrest control.
Tyrone let her.
For a moment.
Then he spun her around and pulled her hair back until she gasped.
“I let you pretend, blondie,” he whispered in her ear. “But I’m always on top.”
She moaned as he pushed her onto the kitchen island, spread her wide, and drove into her with the kind of brutal rhythm that left her gasping and digging her nails into his back.
They fucked in every room—the kitchen, the balcony, the shower where steam returned, the bedroom with red silk sheets. She screamed in Swedish, in English, in moans that didn’t need translation.
By the time morning arrived, Annika was limp with pleasure, curled into his side.
“You’re insatiable,” she whispered.
“No,” Tyrone said. “I’m focused.”
Phone Buzzes Again…
Another message.
Another appointment.
Another guest.
- “I’m back in town. My hotel’s boring. Your place has… atmosphere. – Isabelle, flight attendant”
- “Don’t think I forgot how you made me feel. I have notes to review. – Jessica”
- “I still owe you a gift. You were very… persuasive in Stockholm. – Club Owner, Sweden”
- “You should meet my husband. He’s curious. – Juliette”
Tyrone put the phone down, sipped from his black coffee, and cracked his knuckles.
The empire of pleasure wasn’t going to run itself.
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